Larson: An Outlaw MC Bad Boy Romance

by Juliana Conners

  “I know nothing can compare to serving in the Special Ops with your pararescue brothers,” Ramsey says, sympathetically. “But this seems like a good gig for you. You’re given free reign and you’re paid much better than you used to be—”

  “And much better than Ramsey and I still are,” Harlow points out.

  “And you still get to do what you love,” Ramsey finishes.

  “But I’m not with you two. And I won’t get to be deployed.”

  I know I sound whiny. There are still opportunities to go overseas as a private contractor if I want. But everything’s changed so quickly and I do miss working alongside my brothers. After all we went through as children, we have each other’s backs like no other men could. And it was an honor to serve alongside them as “brothers” in the military as well as actual “brothers.”

  “Well, once you sort this criminal case out, I’m sure you can come back,” says Ramsey, always so supportive.

  “But why would you want to?” quips Harlow. “Stay where you are and I want to come join you.”

  Now there’s an idea.

  “Yeah, first thing’s first,” I say, as I stand up to leave.

  I say goodbye to my biker friends as we get ready to leave. They tell me to come back soon and that they’ll buy me a round to celebrate my escape from the slammer. I think I’m ready to join up with them, and even if Harlow and Ramsey don’t understand, these guys have become like a second family to me. Harlow and Ramsey still have our Special Ops unit to count as their figurative brothers, but I don’t. So I need the Desert Dogs.

  As we walk outside to the parking lot, Ramsey follows me to my bike instead of heading to his car.

  “I’m glad you found some friends here,” he says.

  “Thanks.”

  I stare at him, thinking his nice comment is really just a lead- in to tell me to be careful, or that motorcycle clubs are notoriously rough, or something along those lines. But he doesn’t say anything further.

  “I didn’t mean to upset you about the whole PTSD thing, either,” he says.

  “Well, it’s kind of upsetting, Ramsey. My last lawyer, Dylan— from the VLA? Before I fired him? He sent me to go see this shrink who specializes in PTSD. I had to answer all kinds of prying, embarrassing questions about my past. Mom, Harlow, the war, everything. All so he could find some bullshit reason to say I have PTSD.”

  “And did he?” Ramsey asks, with that look of curiosity returning to his face.

  “Did he what?”

  “Conclude that you have PTSD?”

  “I don’t know. I’m assuming he did. His whole job is to testify that I have PTSD. But I never found out because I fired Dylan before he received the report from the doctor.”

  “I think maybe I should see that doctor.”

  What? I look into Ramsey’s eyes and they look resigned and sad.

  “I’ve just not been sleeping well at all. Night sweats. Really bad dreams. Drinking too much. I don’t want to turn out like Mom. I think I should get some help. And my overreactions have been off the charts. You know that girl I was seeing briefly? Nadia?”

  I nod.

  “I didn’t tell you this because I was too embarrassed. But we broke up because I went on a binge and then accused her of cheating on me, just because I saw her hug a guy at a club. It turned out it was her cousin. I felt like such an idiot. I looked up my symptoms and apparently they’re all classic PTSD indicators.”

  This doesn’t sound like my brother at all. Ramsey is always the cool, calm, collected one. He’s my rock and my go- to guy for advice, support and help.

  “But you’re so strong,” is all I can manage to sputter.

  “Well, that’s the thing, Jensen. I know you don’t have PTSD. But you keep saying it as if anyone with PTSD is weak or crazy. When really it’s just something that happens to people. It affects them, changes them.”

  “I… I’m sorry,” I say, and I wrap my arms around him in a rare hug. “I’ll get you this doctor’s info. I’m sure he can help.”

  “Thanks, bro.”

  He turns to walk across the parking lot and as I get onto my bike I still can’t believe it. I guess I seriously misjudged PTSD and the people who have it. And I sincerely hope Ramsey can get help. I suppose he’s been holding our dysfunctional family together for so long that even he could crack under the pressure.

  I try to think positively as my bike careens around the curves and I head home. Ramsey will get better. I won’t be convicted. And I get to see Riley again soon. In fact, I have a “date” with my beautiful, fancy pants lawyer. Tomorrow evening just can’t get here quickly enough in my book.

  Chapter 13

  I move my mouse wall art from beside the door to my office to right near my monitor. It’s near and dear to my heart because my grandmother bought it for me when I passed the Bar. A cute little cartoon mouse smiles out at me and underneath him is a quote from Frantz Kafka: “A lawyer is a person who writes a 10,000-word document and calls it a ‘brief.’”

  It always makes me laugh. Just like memories of Gram. She’s gone now but she was the one person in my family who was sane. And she wouldn’t have cared if I was a lawyer or a cashier. She just wanted me to be happy.

  I’ve been here setting up my office since five o’clock, and nervously awaiting Jensen’s arrival. I’d told Jensen I’d been working hard on his case, and that was the truth. But the rest of the truth is that I don’t really have any other choice.

  His case is my only case right now, and I haven’t heard anything from my former firm. My days are pretty empty now compared to when I managed multiple complex civil litigation cases of my own, plus helped out partners on other cases.

  I suppose that Jensen’s case is benefitting from all the free time I have to spend on it, as well as my personal feelings towards him. I know that he doesn’t want to use a PTSD defense, and the more I looked into his case and researched the PTSD issue, the more I began to agree with him that PTSD is not the best way to go here.

  I called the expert that Dylan sent Jensen to, who doesn’t even think Jensen has PTSD— although I’m sure that his opinion could definitely be influenced or swayed. In fact, I’m beginning to think that’s what happened in the majority of the cases in which he’s been an expert. All the defense lawyers seem to think that a PTSD defense is the way to go, but I disagree on a case by case basis, for several reasons.

  For one thing, if a current or former service member really has PTSD and needs treatment, of course it’s best for them to get the diagnosis. But it can carry some downsides they might not be expecting— I’ve read that a PTSD diagnosis automatically carries a 100% disability rating and that sometimes service members diagnosed with it are ineligible to continue in their military duties or even find employment outside of the military. There’s certainly an unwelcome and unfair stigma that comes with having PTSD that many would like to avoid.

  And the most baffling thing, to me, is that automatically claiming PTSD doesn’t always even work out well for trial purposes. The prosecutor knows that most service members go for that defense and so they paint the defendant as all the negative characteristics of a person diagnosed with PTSD— irrational, rash, triggery, rage- fueled, etc. If not played correctly in the hands of the defense attorney, the jury might be inclined to think the defendant is guilty simply because he has PTSD. I can definitely see Jensen’s concerns, and not just because I wish he’d jump my bones.

  I had also told Jensen that I don’t usually meet with clients so late, but he’s my only client, and I have nothing else to do anyway. It’s not like I’ve heard from Brian. And I told Jensen his case was moving more quickly than I was used to, which is true… but something else is moving more quickly than I’m used to as well.

  I just can’t seem to put my finger on it but something is definitely happening between Jensen and me. Which is really, really, really not a good thing.

  Finally, I hear a strong knock on the outside of my office doo
r, which is already open. I look up to see Jensen wearing a tight white t-shirt under a leather motorcycle jacket. His muscles and many tattoos are visible. I almost get lost in a daze while staring at a dragon tattoo on his arm. And then there’s a color Dia de Los Muertos– Day of the Dead skull, with red, yellow, blue and green flowers around the eyes sockets and vines wrapping around the forehead.

  Be still my heart.

  That tacky line out of some ancient romance novel or B- rated romantic comedy movie is the only thought my brain is capable of thinking right now.

  “Hey there, lawyer lady,” he says, and walks to the chair in front of my desk, which isn’t very far from the door. It’s a small office and we’re in close quarters. He look around at my sparsely decorated walls— just my diplomas, my bar license and my mouse art because all the art in my prior office was provided by Holt— and I can tell he’s thinking the same thing.

  “Welcome to my temporary office,” I tell him. “It’s small, but it’ll do for now.”

  He stares at me and says nothing for a moment, until I look down, feeling myself blush.

  “Nice mouse picture.”

  “Thank you.”

  I laugh, but I’m touched that he noticed. It shows me he’s observant.

  “They tell me you’re a civil lawyer at some big firm.”

  “I was… or, I am. I’m on a temporary leave of absence. In the meantime I’m working for Veterans’ Legal Alliance.”

  And any other clients I can bring in on my own, I think, but I don’t add that, because it hasn’t happened yet. I could have shared the small VLA office but I thought it best to have somewhere of my own to go, and maybe I’ll impress the partners at Holt by snagging a few of my own clients to bring with me when I go back.

  “I see.”

  “Well, Mr. Bradford…”

  “It’s Jensen, Riley.”

  “Jensen.” I start over, shivers running through my body at the casual familiarity with which he just said my name, and the way he just takes charge of the situation, even though I’m the lawyer and he’s the criminal. Accused, I correct myself. I’m the lawyer and he’s the accused. He’s my client. I’m supposed to be taking charge. “I received the police report and belt tape from the prosecution and I have a few questions to go over with you.”

  I cross the desk in between us and sit down in the chair next to him. We’re now mere inches apart and it’s hard to concentrate.

  “This is a picture of the man you allegedly assaulted,” I tell him, pointing to a picture of a scruffy older guy wearing disheveled clothing. “Did you know him?”

  He hesitates, and then says, “No.”

  “You never met him before the… incident?”

  “That’s right.”

  “They’ll have trouble proving motive,” I say decisively, and he looks as if he wants to say something, but doesn’t. “I just can’t figure out why they would claim you beat up someone you didn’t even know.”

  Silence fills the air.

  “And I just can’t figure out why I have to meet a gorgeous woman like you in this context,” Jensen finally says, and reaches over to move a piece of hair away from my eyes.

  Wow. Brazen.

  “What context is that?” I ask, stupidly.

  “Oh, you know. That you’re my lawyer. Representing me in this bullshit charge. Thinking I’m a dirty no- good criminal and all.”

  Now I’m the one who is silent. But then I remember that I have a job to do, and I try to get back to business.

  “That’s not what I think. But Jensen. I’ve been working on the more behind- the- scenes aspect of your technical legal defense,” I tell him. “I understand that you don’t want to go with the PTSD defense—”

  “Right. But it’s not because I think that people who have PTSD are bad, or crazy or anything,” he interrupts me to say. “In fact, I think my older brother Ramsey might have PTSD and he’s the best guy I know.”

  “I’m sorry to hear that,” I say.

  “I just think that for me, personally, it’s not a good defense,” he continues.

  “Okay, Jensen, I get it,” I assure him. “But right now I just need to understand more about what happened factually. Why were you at the house where the incident occurred?”

  “I knew someone else who lived there,” says Jensen. “Not him though.”

  His entire appearance is stiff and tense.

  “Okay. Who did you know there?”

  “It’s my turn to ask you a question now,” he says, leaning in close to me.

  I blink, my heart speeding up. “Okay.”

  “Can I kiss you?”

  I inhale, surprised yet excited. This makes no sense. Even if I wasn’t his lawyer, he’s not my type.

  But I nod my head, at the same time I ask myself what the hell I’m doing.

  His lips are already touching mine, or more like tearing mine apart. His tongue explores my lips and then my tongue, which eagerly reaches out to meet his.

  This is… delicious. This is much better than any kind of kiss I’ve ever gotten from Brian, or anyone at all. This is…

  …unethical.

  “Wait!” I push him back, and he complies, but looks deeply into my eyes as if he’s more hurt than mad.

  “What, Riley?”

  Stop saying my name, I want to say. It drives me crazy.

  But instead I say, “I can’t do this.”

  Jensen raises his eyebrows at me, as if I’d given him a challenge.

  “Ethically, I mean,” I explain quickly. “It’s forbidden for lawyers and their clients to…”

  “Fuck?” he correctly guesses, raising an eyebrow at me yet again.

  “Well. Yes.”

  I fiddle with my hands in my lap, feeling too straight- laced. But I just lost my job for being too ethical and it would make no sense to do the opposite now, on some whim. Nothing about this whole situation with Jensen makes any sense, though.

  “So there’s nothing saying they can’t make out?” he asks, and his tongue is back in my mouth, exactly where I want it.

  I hold onto his hair while he puts a hand on my waist, bringing me closer to him while he kisses me. I don’t think they’re supposed to be involved romantically at all, I think to myself, but my head’s a mess. I can’t think straight.

  “Jensen,” I say, gently pushing him away once again. “That feels… amazing. But if I’m going to be able to help you at your hearing next week, we have to talk about your case. And you have to give me more information than vague answers followed by a kiss.”

  “An amazing kiss,” he says, and winks.

  “Jensen.”

  “Riley. We have a week. You’re all work and no play. And how can I trust you with my innermost secrets when I don’t even know you? Why don’t you loosen up and stop thinking about work all the time? Perhaps by hanging out with me, you’ll actually be better at your job.”

  I tilt my head at his “logic.” But I can tell that for some reason he’s holding back on me. And he’s right that I’m all work and no play.

  “When was the last time you did something you really wanted to do? Something that wasn’t expected of you or something that would even be frowned upon?”

  “Just now when I let you kiss me,” is my quick answer.

  “You definitely are a lawyer,” he says with a laugh. “Good answer. But why stop there? Come have a drink with me. I’ll show you a good time. Just as a… client.”

  Sure, clients and lawyers do have drinks together, I think to myself. At my old firm, it was more of a requirement than a fun thing to do. But it wasn’t exactly in this situation.

  “I… um…” Usually I would think about all the things I had to do, the huge pile of work at my office and then more to catch up on when I got home. But I’m no longer at Holt. Jensen’s my only client and he wants to go get a drink with me.

  “All right,” I say. “I know a place near here.”

  “Can’t wait to see where lawyers hang out,
” he says with a sarcastic tone and an evil grin, as he reaches out to help me up.

  He holds the door open for me and swats my ass while I go through it.

  “Hey now,” I say, turning back to him.

  He grabs me and holds me tight.

  “I can’t help myself.”

  And as I turn around to kiss him, saying, “Maybe just one more time before we’re out in public…” it’s clear that I can’t either.

  Chapter 14

  I’ve never felt more out of place than I feel in this swanky bar full of suits and ties. Everyone looks me up and down. But I don’t care. I just want to keep the heat on Riley. She does something to me that no one else ever has. I want her badly enough that I’ll stay in this snot-nosed bar with her.

  I’m not even sure why I told her that Ramsey may have PTSD. I’m sure he wouldn’t be too happy with me for airing his dirty laundry to practical strangers. But I guess I just feel comfortable with her in a way that surprises me. And maybe Ramsey might need her help, because I know there’s a lot of discrimination against military members who have PTSD.

  She’d said she “gets” that I don’t want to use PTSD as a defense myself, and once again I wasn’t sure if she was being genuine or just blowing smoke up my ass. I want to believe that I can trust her, but Dylan always gave me the same song and dance, just to turn around and do the opposite. And she always seems to brush over that part of my case, just like Dylan did.

  She chooses a table in the corner and I choose the chair beside her. I immediately put my foot on top of hers under the table, and she doesn’t take hers away. I forget all about my case now, and just bask in the warmth of being next to her.

  “So what’ll it be, Ms. Riley?” I ask, looking at the fancy-sounding and expensive drinks on the menu. “No wait, let me guess. An Appletini?”

  “Ha.” She laughs that laugh I love, the one that made me crack that joke just so I could hear her laugh in response. “Close but no cigar. I’d like a Manhattan.”

  “Oooh. Good choice. Strong drink.”

  “Drink big or go home, right?”